Maybe You Need Me
by HeavyDrugsOrGroupHugs
Summary: Mark meets someone on the quiet streets. This stranger with the fireworks in her eyes may be something special. Mark/OC Prequel to my story The One of Us.
1. Chapter 1

**The concept of this story came from another Rent fic I wrote which mentions Mark with an original character (The One of Us). I decided to expand on her even though I'm not particularly fond of OCs.**

**Reviews are encouraged appreciated.**

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December 13th, 8:30 PM Eastern Standard Time.

Mark walked the familiar street, its lamps already lit with the absence of an early-setting sun. By that time of year, night meant a cold 15 hours of darkness. Still, Mark continued down the pavement, away from the flat that was a cold as the doorways the homeless huddled in.

Even in the city that never sleeps, the street seemed eerily quiet. Under the light of a street lamp, he holds his camera, letting it take in the surroundings. The whole area is empty. A few cars sit, their eyes dark, on the curb. Nothing moves but the wind on Mark's cheeks. He's alone.

But he isn't.

In the pool of light less than a block away, a shadow moves, then steps into the circle. Boots click along the concrete. A long overcoat dances in a sudden winter gust.

She moves forward, walking out of the lamp's glow, moving slowly, aware of the stranger. Even as she is obscured by the night, Mark can still see her coming in his direction. As she draws nearer, Mark takes in her face clearly. Wide eyes holding distrust. Skin the colour of milk. Deep red hair blowing like a cape around her.

Mark's fingers tremble suddenly under the weight of the camera he is still holding. As if in slow motion, the camera tumbles down onto the pavement.

Mark hears the cry coming from his mouth, his throat, as panic grabs him. He falls to his knees, grasping his most valued possession to his chest with one arm as he runs the other frantically over the ground in search of any missing pieces.

"Here."

Mark's heart skips a beat in momentary surprise as a hand holds out a round object. The woman, on her knees beside him, holds out his camera lens.

He takes it, glancing at her face, focusing back on the camera. His rough fingers run along its surface, searching for dents, jagged edges, anything that could be wrong.

Nothing.

Slowly, he turns the handle, presses a button. The camera comes to life. Its first shot is the face of a woman peering anxiously at the man breathing a sigh of relief.

"Thanks," says Mark, suddenly hyper-aware of his close proximity to this strange woman.

"Anytime."

Mark stands, awkwardly, then extends his hand to help her up, a gesture she ignores and rises on her own. A light smile his way causes Mark to speak sans filter.

"So, um, do you just walk the streets helping lone cameramen or were you heading somewhere?" he asks, trying his best to sound clever, to sound interesting, to sound like anything but a stupid klutz of a person.

She shakes her head, letting her hair fly up in another gust of wind.

"I like to be outside at nighttime. There's something about this part of the city. Sometimes it can be almost…quiet, you know?"

He did know. Here, under that streetlamp, he had found silence.

"Isn't that dangerous? I mean, should you be out so late? By yourself?"

A smirk curls at her lips.

"I can handle myself."

"A lot better than I can, apparently."

"I'm Kay."

"Mark."

She held a palm out to him.

"Well, Mark, this chance meeting could be more than just chance. Maybe you need me around. I think we'd better look into it. I know a café near here. Would you care to join me?"

Mark took her hand, and together they stepped out of the light, into something better.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own this amazing musical, I rent. ;)**

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He fell hard very quickly. This Kay, this creature unlike any other had fallen into his lap and he wanted nothing more than to hold her there forever.

She was a write, he learned, whose stories were like Mark's films – gritty and real. The night thy met, she was out wandering the streets for inspiration. She had found it, she said, in a pale figure under a streetlamp who seemed to need her.

His camera was full of footage of her: Kay laughing, Kay dancing around her apartment, Kay sitting at her desk with a pen, pushing the hair back from her face, oblivious to the fact that he was creating memories.

He was her inspiration and he was hers.

She lived in Alphabet City, not too far from Mark, but to him, the distance seemed unbearable. After a month together, she moved into the flat.

Kay and Mimi hit it off right away. They often spent time sitting on the couch together, trading stories of their work, their lives, their boyfriends.

Kay met the others too. She was friendly with Roger who let Mark know that she was the kind of girl to hang on to. Collins folded her into a bear hug when he was first introduced to Kay, telling her that she had probably saved Mark from fatal sex withdrawal. She got along well with Joanne; the two shared an intelligence they seemed to be able to be able to connect with.

Only Maureen kept her distance. She greeted Kay with a small smile, or a handshake, but would not truly become Maureen around her.

One night revealed why.

The group of Bohemians was lounging around the flat, a bottle of Stoli passing between them. For once, only Collins sat alone. Kay had sat silently when told of Angel, the one beautiful soul she would never meet. But Collins smiled that night, happily pouring out the alcohol.

The conversation died away and for a moment, the room was quiet, everybody lost in their own thoughts. Maureen pouted from Joanne's lap. Mimi and Roger were tangled around each other, staring off into space. Kay leaned on Mark, sending electricity through her touch, her fingers curled around his.

Collins shook himself out of it first.

"A toast!" he called suddenly, raising his cup towards his friends. "To Mark, who's finally getting laid again, and to Kay, the only woman who is brave enough to do it." No one noticed a sharp look from Maureen.

Five more cups joined Collins' in the air. Only Maureen sat still, her arms folded over her chest, a frown deepened on her brow.

"I gotta pee," she said, and headed towards the bathroom. Mark rose and followed her. When they were out of the sight of the others, he turned to Maureen.

"Mo, what's wrong? Around Kay, you're just…not you."

She sighed, blowing her hair away from her face. He scowl deepened, but she didn't reply.

"Maureen, are you…jealous?" Mark asked hesitantly, knowing she would deny it.

She exhaled and finally spoke.

"No! Well, I just…I wanted to be your last, you know? I mean, you were so hung up on me, I thought you might not get over it, that you might just, I don't know, watch me and wish you could have me again."

She said it dreamily, as if she'd imagined it a hundred times over.

"Mo," Mark began carefully. "I just need to be happy, ok? I can't just wait for you whole life. You've got Joanne, and now I've got Kay. Kay…she makes me happy, Mo."

They stand in silence for a moment, Maureen clearly conflicted.

"You know," Mark ventured slowly, "you were my first. And before Kay, you were my only. Ever."

"Was I?" Maureen's smile suddenly breaks out and she beams at him. "Marky, you never told me that!"

"I would have thought it was obvious," said Mark, blood pooling in his cheeks. "But you were something special, Maureen. I'm always going to remember that."

Maureen ginned sheepishly. "Thanks, Marky. You know, she fits you perfectly."

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**I hope everyone is enjoying the story. I'm sorry if I don't update for a little while, I'm about to go into exams. Anyways, please review. It's nice to know when my writing has made you feel anything at all. Thanks.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm sorry I abandoned this story for a while (at least, a while in my perspective). I have a detailed outline for the next two chapters that will make up this story, so those will probably come along much quicker. This is aided by reviews, of course.**

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A week, a month, two flew by in a funny haze of something Mark had never experienced before. It was like walking through a shimmer effect, or rather, what he imagined walking through a shimmer effect would feel like. Everything seemed distorted; the street he'd lived on for years, the sound of a taxi horn, the picture of his own face in the mirror.

She didn't seem phased by it. He'd learned that her small, slow smile meant more than it showed. It was her eyes that expressed her range of emotion, but still, she kept that hidden sometimes too. Mark couldn't tell if it was simply who she was, the essence of Kay, that made her hard to read, or if she had not fallen as he had. She seemed to radiate something around him, the perfume of a dizzying power inside. Mark only hoped that it was the perfume of love.

She was the second girl he had ever loved, and the second girl he had ever made love to. She could run a finger over his collarbone and he would be ready to lose himself in her. She need only let her hair fall a certain way and he could feel himself begin to burn away.

Mark loved these experiences because he never felt the need to role away from her quickly and head right to the bathroom, as he had done with Maureen. He felt no need to scrub away the reminiscent of wherever Kay had been before. He knew she was his and only his. He loved those evenings when they lay together, whispering, holding each other, simply.

"If not for film, what would you have done with your life?" she asked him one night, her eyes wandering down his body and up to his face again. Mark held her legs to his chest, his other arm wrapping around her head, clutching her in a fetal position, as close to his heart as he could get her.

"I've never thought about it, really," he said finally. "I've always had a camera in my hands. It's all I ever wanted growing up."

Kay looked at him with her electric eyes. "But say you couldn't have it anymore. Say something changed."

"A doctor," he said after a moment. "I'd be a doctor and I'd save peoples' lives." Mark's eyes clouded briefly as he recalled everyone he had lost. So recently too, it seemed.

"We'll never have enough of those," Kay said, quietly, stroking Mark's head.

Mark looked back at her, and the haze in his eyes cleared as he watched her face carefully. "What about you?" he asked. "What would you do if you couldn't be a writer?"

"Easy," Kay responded. "A teacher. Anywhere from kinder garden to third grade, I guess. Get them while they're young."

He grinned at her. "A bit devious, yes?" he asked, and their conversation ended then.

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Nights like that were regular. Their words, as deep as the sea, were followed closely by passion even deeper.

The first time the condom broke, he apologized sincerely until she pulled him into her embrace.

"It's okay. Nothing is wrong," she assured him, her voice soft and comforting. "Either life goes on," she smiled, "or I get my own little Mark."

The second time it happened, he threw out the box, but didn't say a word.

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**Ohh, Cliffhanger. Plot twist to come.**

**Reviews are life.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry in advance.**

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He came home early to an empty apartment that day. It wasn't so unusual; Mark had grown accustomed to Kay's sudden need for sky above her head. Her empty writing desk stood in the center of the loft's big room; the place she felt had the best creative flow. For once, no papers were scattered across its surface. A few pens sat neatly in an old coffee can. Kay had obviously tidied up, something that almost never happened. It was strange and Mark could not help but notice.

Mark shrugged off his coat and his doubt and made his way into the kitchen area to make a pot of tea for him and girlfriend, wherever she was.

She didn't come in when the water was boiled, or when Mark was drinking his second cup. She wasn't home yet when the streetlights came on, or when it was dark enough inside to light the candles strewn around the loft. For once, Mark complained about the lack of dinner options in the fridge to himself instead of someone equally hungry. For once, he pulled out novel to pass the time. And for once, he began to worry at the darkness of the outside sky.

It grew later. From his seat on the window ledge, Mark could see Mimi leave for work. The homeless had turned into doorways and subways tunnels for the night.

By eleven o'clock, Mark finally stood, stretched his legs and walked slowly towards his bedroom, Kay's bedroom, though he had no intention of sleeping. He passed Kay's writing desk and noticed for the first time the absence of something more important than papers and pens.

A month ago, while walking in the park, Kay had convinced him to get their picture taken by the photo artist. Though Mark had been resistant – he had never been partial to still life photography – he agreed to capture a moment with Kay. The black and white shot was beautiful, he had to admit. He had his arms wrapped protectively around her small frame. She smiled at the lens so brightly that her eyes squinted as if she were looking into the sun. They looked so natural.

Kay kept the photo on her desk. She said she liked looking into the face of her inspiration. He looked at that photo almost as often as she did; loving that framed black and white memory.

Now, the photo was gone. As he stared at the empty spot, almost expecting to see the outline of the place the frame had rested in the dust. But there was no dust, no sign, nothing to suggest that anything had been there at all.

Something heavy filled Mark, a rock slipping from his temples into his throat and landing with a thud in his stomach. Slowly, he turned towards the bedroom, the silence of the loft suddenly ringing much too loud in his ears.

It was dark, but from the light of his candle, Mark could see the outline of the sparsely furnished room. A neatly made bed, dresser draws shut tightly, no clothes flung over the back of the wooden chair and a piece of folded paper on Mark's pillow.

There, sitting on the faded quilt of the bed he had shared with the love of his life, her handwriting in one hand and his candle in the other, Mark Cohen's heart broke.

**_My Dear Mark_**

**_It's killing me to write this, killing me more than anything else. The only thing that could hurt more than imagining your face now is to see it in person. It makes me a coward, I know, to hide behind words on a page. You always told me how strong I was. If I'm not strong enough to face you, how strong could I be?_**

**_I went to the clinic this morning. _**

**_I think I cried more for you than for myself at that little word on the sheet: Positive. Oh Marky, I didn't know. I don't know when or how or for how long, but Marky, I know it's my fault. It's so common now; you would think that the idea of it wouldn't be so bad anymore. But that word on the paper, it means dead, Marky. People get AIDS and they die; or they give it to someone else and they watch them die too. . _**

**_I think I've killed the thing I love most in this world. Because I love you, Mark. But I can't stand to watch you die, even if you die with me. I'm sorry I am so weak. I'm sorry I'm taking the easy way out by leaving you behind. It's the easy way, but not the easiest. Your friend April knew the easiest way. It's ironic that it's April now. But I've hurt you enough, Mark. I'm going to finish this letter and then I'm going to walk out the door. I don't know where I'm going to go, but I don't want you to worry. I don't deserve it._**

**_I'm sorry for what I did to you. You mean everything to me. I love you._**

**_Kay_**


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry this took a while to complete. I lost intrest a bit. But here's the end of the story...kind of. It was a prequel to my story The One of Us. So you can go read that, if you would like. However, it won't be as effective anymore. I hope you like this last chapter. I have mixed feelings on it.**

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Roger would never forget the frozen look on his friend's face the night he found Mark in the loft. Roger recognized it oh so well, for it was the look he himself had worn for weeks after April killed herself. He had been furious at her for leaving him so suddenly and so willingly. But he could do nothing to take his feelings out on her then. There was nothing left. Kay was different. She was alive somewhere, and Roger wanted nothing more than to hunt her down and kill her himself for what she had done to Mark.

Roger took the crumbled note from Mark's fist and carefully led him down the stairs out of the loft Mark had shared with Kay for months. In Mimi's apartment, Roger pulled out an extra mattress and an armful of blankets. He lightly pushed Mark down onto the makeshift bed before settling on the couch.

He watched Mark squeeze his eyes closed, as if praying for the sleep that would bring him some peace. Roger watched him drift then finally fade out of conciseness. Asleep, Mark didn't move an inch, save for the few tears that lightly slipped down his too-pale face.

Mimi came home from work early that morning. Roger was wide awake, never taking his eyes off of the sleeping Mark until she walked in. Mimi looked at Roger questioningly, but he only shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. _Later._ Mimi went to sleep in her own bed, assuming that Kay was upstairs in hers, sleeping off what Mimi guessed was Mark and Kay's first fight. _It'll be better in the morning, _she thought. _Better in the morning._

***

Roger had never seen anyone succumb to the virus so quickly. He was with Mark as Mark unfolded the medical sheet with his test results. They both knew what the paper would say before it was opened, but still, Mark cried and Roger supported the weight of the tears. Mark had done it for him.

Mark faded fast. Roger watched something ugly take up residence within his best friend. The virus, yes, and Roger was there as Mark struggled through his first night of sickness, but there was something more that had caught the young filmmaker in its jaws and crushed him before Roger's eyes.

It was Kay, Roger knew, that hollowed away at Mark. Once as he visited Mark in the loft, Roger kicked over the chair of Kay's writing desk in a fit of rage at the bitch that was killing his friend.

"Goddammit, Mark. Why is her stuff still here? It should be burned. _She _should be burned."

But Mark, weak and tired, pulled himself up from the couch and carefully picked up the chair, sliding it back into place.

"Don't, Roger. Please."

***

A year and six days – he'd counted – after she left him, Mark got a call from Kay. It was not her voice on the phone; instead, she was interpreted by a man with voice of warm milk that washed into Mark's ear, but it was Kay all the same.

"I have a message for Mark Cohen from Kaitlin Bronson."

"Yes," managed Mark, the only sound he could get out.

"I'm sorry to tell you that Kaitlin passed away today. She wanted to leave a note for you. It says, 'It won't be too long now, and maybe then you can forgive me.'"

"Thank you," said Mark, quietly, and lowered the receiver. He looked over at Kay's writing desk, standing in the middle of the room, exactly as she had left it a year and six days ago. Mark shook his head slowly.

"Don't you know?" he whispered to the empty room. "I've already forgiven you."

***

When Roger climbed the stairs to the loft later that day, he found his best friend dead with the faintest trace of a smile on his white lips. The autopsy showed death as related to the virus. Roger saw so much more.

She had been the one thing he loved best. Without her, he didn't function. When Kay let go, Mark had no choice but to follow. Like air, like water, he needed her.


End file.
